The Lady in the Tower
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: She had once been Queen and now she was a prisoner in her own country...sort of sequel to The Little Golem Boy


Characters and locations etc from the game belong to Bioware – I'm just tinkering along the edges…

This is my way of making peace with Anora after she turned on my PC city elf and my party had to fight their way out of the mess she'd dropped us in. The scene where she returns to tell Arl Eamon that my character had been captured and the cause of this capture was just a tad too dismissive on her part and we stopped speaking to each other, returned our friendship tokens etc (even if incarceration meant being in a cell with a near-naked Alistair, there had to be a _breaking point _in the relationship somewhere). After a while I tired of the frosty silences during the inevitable meetings by the water cooler and the failed attempts to ignore each other in the corridors, so I decided to send in the Theirrin boys to sort it out for me.

Timelines are a bit foggy here, so bear with me…

-oo-

**The Lady in the Tower**

There had been a _procession,_ culminating in an unnecessarily long peal of the Denerim Chantry bells – every chime pounding at her already raw nerves, grinding into the base of her skull. Anora had ordered her windows to be shut and when that did not fully exclude the noise, she had retired to her bed, jamming the pillows around her head while she gritted her teeth and recited a litany of curses against them all.

It was graceless of her she knew, but she cared little for the opinions of those who – despite being the least qualified to give them – were the only ones left behind who did.

She hadn't been invited to the wedding. Not that she would have gone if she had been. It would have been an embarrassment, having the deposed – _usurped_ – Queen of Ferelden give witness to the marital vows of the Betrayer and Maric's Bastard. She had been excluded from the coronation as well.

Erlina had made the mistake of mentioning that event to her and Anora had screamed in rage and struck her – sending the woman spinning to the ground. The fool of a woman had wisely never mentioned the Pretenders ever again.

She had lain with eyes shut and so had not seen the elven maid enter the room - yet Anora knew someone was there by the flickering of shapes perceived through her eyelids. Anora peeled one eye open cautiously, glaring at Erlina as the woman attended to her collection of small, empty bottles on her 'special' table. When she finished, she came to the side of the bed, a small fluted glass in her hand, filled with an aromatic, golden liquid.

Anora sat up, allowing the pillow to drop from her shoulders behind her. She glared at Erlina.

"You're late," Anora told her. "You should have come earlier. I _expect _a certain level of common sense from you. It appears to be missing of late."

Apologising, Erlina handed the glass to her, after which Anora allowed the elf to make the pillow at her back more comfortable.

"Aargh, I have such a headache, from that infernal cacophony," she muttered.

Anora eyed the diminutive woman, watching for signs of change in expression. Erlina's face remained impassive and respectful, as was expected. Maker knew Anora paid the woman enough – or at least Maric's bastard did that now, she supposed, although the conniving bitch he was now married to had mentioned a proportion of money made from her father's Teyrnir was hers to do with as she wished. _Not that there's anything to spend it on, _Anora mused bitterly, _locked in this tower._

As there was nothing she wished to discuss with her _maid,_ Anora swallowed the entire contents of the glass in one, unladylike gulp. Almost immediately she felt a wash of near bliss flow through her; like standing in a shower of cool rain. She smiled humourlessly at Erlina. There was one thing the woman did well and preparing her special tonics was one of them. It was worth spending exorbitant amounts of (the king's) money to keep her employed for this particular talent.

The Chantry bells had _stopped _but Anora felt nothing but calm in any case; clear as a blue sky and steady as a mountain. Leaning back against the pillows, she contemplated the sunlight dancing on the fabric of the bed canopy. She didn't remember falling asleep.

-oo-

Visitors were few and far between. Sometimes it was _Her;_ on the odd occasion it was Arl Eamon and on even more odd occasions, the Bastard King – but on all these she made it quite clear that none of them were welcome in _her _tower_._ Her so-called supporters – those who had promised their word for the Landsmeet had appeared to desert her which was disappointing. She had rehearsed a number of colourful speeches _specifically_ for them.

After a while it was only Erlina and her wonderful restoratives that kept her company.

At first she had spent her time writing, embroidering, pacing, plotting or staring at the world outside. From her small window she could see the Drakon River, separating the proper, _respectable _part of Denerim from the refuse and filth. Still, it had been _her_ city, _her_ country. She had done her best to serve this city and this country only to have them both turn their backs on her.

Ingrates.

"Andraste's mercy, hurry _up_ Erlina!"

She had used up the early morning hours watching the barges shift their loads along the Drakon. The day had dawned clear and cool; a perfect autumn day, but she had woken up feeling on edge and nervous. The pattern in her needlework frame which had been so perfect the day before, had seemed to have turned into a mess of thread and puckered cloth overnight. She had taken her scissors to it, at first carefully snipping the stitches but when it had taken too long, she had sliced through the cloth, throwing the whole lot – linen and frame – out of the window. It had taken nearly ten minutes of urgent screeching before the Maker-cursed knife-ears answered her call.

"Here, Your Majesty."

Anora drank thirstily, hurling the glass against the wall when she finished, finding satisfaction in the noise of breaking, scattering glass. She turned her gaze on the elf, eyes narrowing. "You've changed the mix," she accused the elf.

Erlina's expression was as usual, unwaveringly serene.

"As you _requested_, Your Majesty."

Anora snorted, rubbing her fist into her eyes.

"Of course" she said. "I remember." The nervousness was leaving her; the feeling of turning into rock subsiding. She sat down.

"Thank you, Erlina" she told the maid. "You are very good to me."

She turned, but the elven maid was not there. In her place was a small, blonde-haired boy with startling blue eyes. _Cailan, _her mind said, but memory told her Cailan was dead and had been dead for nearly a decade. Besides, the child's gaze was uncannily direct and focussed, which was not like her dead husband at all. Cailan had never stopped moving; always busy. His attention span had never been particularly long, but this child was regarding her with far more patience and curiosity than Cailan had ever granted her.

Before she could speak, the child cocked his head to the side and asked, "Who are you?"

"I am the Queen," Anora told him with practised stateliness, then lifted an eyebrow.

"And what are _you_?" she asked.

"I'm a boy," he responded, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, because of course, it _was._

"Why are you here?" Anora demanded.

The child shrugged, then with all the honesty of youth added, "It's my tower."

-oo-

She was going mad – that was the only explanation for it. Otherwise, why _look forward _to the boy's visits? She had never been good with children. Perhaps if she had had any…unless someone was there to do her bidding; to bend to her will; to make them adore her, she had never been interested. Children were demanding tyrants, always seeking to twist adults to their will, winding them around their little fingers. I want, I want, I want.

The boy was different.

Some days he would bring a book and read it to her; or share sweet treats he had hoarded like treasure. On others he would simply sit in a corner and draw or look out of the window, describing what he saw. Most of the time it was idle, childish chatter, but he was her connection to the world outside; the place that existed beyond the stone walls of her tower. His bright head of hair and deep blue eyes was like sunshine to her natural-light-deprived self, water to her dried husk of a life that was once full and meaningful and worth something – and he never demanded, he never asked. He was just there.

The days were confusing ones. She knew that the day started with the sun rising and ended with it sinking below the horizon, but there was little that she could recall about the day itself besides Erlina's daily tonics and Cailan's visits…

"Why do you call me Cailan?" he asked her – and it seemed as though he had asked the question before, which seemed silly and foolish.

"Because it's your name, child," Anora snapped at him – and that was the other thing about the boy – her mood swings, bursts of anger and fits of melancholy did not seem to faze him in the slightest.

He looked up at her with his deep blue eyes, frowning.

"My name is Duncan," he told her, with a small shake of his head as though he was tired of reminding her. And then he was gone and she felt hollow and empty and the sun would not rise; the day remaining dark and silent and cold.

-oo-

_It was them…what in Andraste's name were _they _doing here?_ Loitering about in her personal space?

It was the woman that spoke; the false queen.

"Are you _sure?_ Maker's breath, how did we not notice this was happening? Under our own noses?"

"Quite sure – and as far as I can tell…in the late stages too."

It was a new voice, one that Anora had not heard before. She was having one of _those _days; one of those dream-like days where the people from her past visited for the sole reason of annoying and confusing her, but she was _smarter _than that. She didn't rule Ferelden for five years because she was stupid. She waited and listened.

"Well, it's an irony that the one person in Ferelden who kept seeing Orlesians under every bed didn't see the risk in his only daughter's personal maid. Trained in _Antiva_, wasn't she?"

Anora curled her lip at the speaker. They had expected her to form an alliance with this one once…in return for continuing to be Queen of Ferelden. He had been a poor copy of Cailan, another little boy playing at adult and failing miserably. She had thought that she had had the upper hand, had almost foiled their attempts but she had underestimated the woman.

She had spent all her life a commoner playing in a noble's world – and then she had become one; one of the highest nobles in the country. Anora Mac Tir; her common blood becoming more important, more valuable than the chilled, ancient blue blood of those who had simply _inherited_, not suffered for it, nor worked for it (not as she had worked for it), and earned it. And yet, it was a noble – and one belonging to a line of the oldest blue-bloods in Ferelden – that had played her at her own game…and won.

"Can we not doing anything for her? Can not a cure be found? Some kind of treatment?"

The sound of that woman's voice made her commoner's blood boil. Something about her voice - she hadn't needed elocution lessons to speak like that.

And then the unknown voice again in response. "I'm afraid the damage has been done – there is little we can do except…make her comfortable."

Anora's sight became briefly, suddenly clear. There were three of them standing in the room. Her room. _She _stood at the foot of the bed - Anora noting with gleeful triumph the amount of grey in the other woman's hair. The man with the boyish voice wore the robes of a mage, his light brown hair pulled back roughly in a ponytail. His beard was shaggy and in need of a trim and he appeared to be missing an earring – no, she noted when he turned his head to face her. _He's wearing them both in the same ear._

The woman sighed, rubbing at the lines around her eyes.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept looking all the same."

"Sure…I'll just wave my magic wand and it'll just appear…just like magic, eh?" He turned serious for a moment.

"What about the maid? If we can find her and question her, we might be able to see whether she had…"

"An antidote of some kind?"

"Well..." the mage looked from the king to the queen and shrugged. "Yup, just clutching at straws here. I suppose an antidote was never an option, but I just had to ask…just saying. I'm a _professional_, just in case you've forgotten."

"I've had people looking." He was looking at _her_ – Anora kept her face immobile, staring mindlessly at the king. She could use this information later against them she was sure. Someone was being poisoned, she could understand that much – but whom?

"The maid has definitely scarpered," the king continued with a shake of his head. Anora wanted to laugh. They were trying to find the perpetrator of the poisonings but had been unsuccessful! Well, a loss for _them _was a win for _her._

She had closed her eyes then - merely blinked - but when she opened them again, the three of them had gone and the room was dark.

Erlina did not come that day, or the next.

-oo-

"So this is where you've been coming all this time? Are you mad, Duncan? What will mother and father think?"

"They'll think that I gave a damn about someone other than myself, Bryce."

Anora smiled at the young man – her Cailan, her beautiful, handsome Cailan come to court her. She would make him work for it – regardless of the arrangement her parents had made for the both of them before either had come out of leading strings. She knew he had harboured a huge crush on her for the longest time and she wanted to test the limits of his infatuation with her. What would she do today? Send him on a quest? Pretend to admire someone else? Seeing the confusion on his face was always such fun as she enjoyed even more being able to tease the smile back onto his face.

"And watch your tone, this _is_ the former queen." She loved it when he came to her defence – her prince in shining armour.

"What?" the other lad scoffed. "This drooling lunatic; the _queen_?"

Her Cailan would have gotten angry; he would have challenged the other to a duel, struck him down and had never let the other one stand. Instead this Cailan merely sighed in annoyance. Anora frowned at him – was he feeling unwell? Why did he not fight back?

"Try for _once_ to use your imagination, brother – and she does not drool."

"Right…Imagination cap – _on._ Nope, nope not working, sorry. Look do you want me to just wait outside? Less awkwardness all 'round don't you think?"

"If you wish."

The other one was backing out of the door. Anora thought there was something familiar about him, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it; the dark hair and the amber eyes…she had seen them somewhere else, but where?

Once the other young man was supposedly outside, his disembodied head re-appeared unexpectedly, "Just keep sharp objects away from her all right?"

Her Cailan did not look at the other one. His smile was only for her, "She won't hurt me, Bryce."

"If you're sure…"

"Good _bye, _Bryce."

He took her hand in his; the smile seeming to slip a little as he spoke. "I've decided," he told her. "I'm to join the Order…I'll be leaving for Redcliffe to train there – I wanted to tell you before I left, just in case you worried." She shook her head. _No, you cannot go. If you go you will be killed – my father will betray you and you will die – but I'm not supposed to know that. He thinks I don't know…_

"You won't be alone, Anora. I've arranged to have someone come and sit with you – tell you stories, just as I would."

She shook her head again. _No, it won't be the same. It's never the same if it's not you. Do you not understand, foolish, idiotic man – you cannot be _replaced.

"I love you…" she heard herself finally speak, allowing the tears to fall, her voice rough and foreign to her own ears.

He kissed her hands, his eyes of deepest blue into hers. Smiling; always smiling.

"I love you too," he said – and then he was gone.

-oo-

He did not take the lyrium. It always made him feel a bit…odd; a little bit too calm and a little bit too happy. Calm and happy on their own were fine, but together didn't seem quite _right_ to him_._ Besides, hadn't he been witness to the results of lyrium poisoning himself? He knew it was possible to carry out his duties as Templar without lyrium – his own father had been a shining example of that possibility and it wasn't as if he hadn't been able to do without up to now.

There were benefits – he knew that. Lyrium dulled one's emotional reaction to stressful situations and - recalling the failed harrowing from the previous week, he could understand why Templars chose to use it. While the mage's death still gnawed at his conscience, Duncan embraced the guilt. It meant that he was still alive – and he still _cared._

There had been times when he had been tempted to simply follow normal practice and take his daily dose of lyrium like a good little Templar – his first harrowing gone wrong; the day his parents left for the Deep Roads…and the day the note arrived to tell him The Lady of the Tower had been found still and cold in her bed…

There was a knock on the door. Duncan turned and nodded acknowledgement to the messenger.

"They're ready for you, Ser Duncan."

_Right._ He ran a gloved hand through his hair, dropping the vial of lyrium into the box for disposal later. He made his way downstairs, emerging eventually into the small courtyard on the easternmost part of the castle. Bryce was already there, looking uncomfortable in the King's Armour. He grinned at that, grateful his brother had made an effort for the occasion.

"Are you _sure _about this?" Bryce asked him, when he was within earshot.

Duncan shrugged, "Why not? She ruled for five years. While it wasn't the most notable of reigns it should still be acknowledged."

"I mean the _wording._"

"You don't have to read it," Duncan pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, well I couldn't help it – and before you say you're surprised that I could read all those big words…damn, I can't remember where I was going with that one. I'm blaming that on you. Do you want to do this – or do you want me to do the whole 'king' thing?"

"Are you going to do a speech?"

"Should I have prepared one?"

_Sigh, _"I'll just do it then."

Duncan took a hold of the heavy cloth and tugged. It snagged a bit, spoiling the effect, but the rest came off all right. Underneath was a statue of a woman, hands clasped demurely, looking upwards. Duncan followed her line of sight, finding it aligned with the east tower perfectly as he had requested. The sculptor had suggested the statue be placed overlooking the city, but Duncan had disagreed. She'd had enough of looking at a city she couldn't live in, he'd thought.

It was half-scale, modest; but the sculptor had done wonderful work, capturing her form and features precisely. It was a younger Anora, taken from a portrait of her shortly after her wedding to King Cailan – it had been that portrait that had first led him to try and find her in the first place.

On the statue's base the plaque read: _Anora – Queen, Wife and My Friend_. It had been the last description that Bryce had questioned.

"Well," Bryce clapped him on the shoulder, his glove making a loud metallic ringing noise as it connected. "Now that's done, fancy a drink with the Arl? He's visiting with the family."

Without removing his attention from the plaque, Duncan snorted, "What, so the both of us can watch you drink yourself under the table?"

"No, no, no, I've been practising. Besides, I – er – intend to stay sober tonight. Because you know…I have important…kinging…stuff to do later."

This brought Duncan's head up. He drilled his brother with a keen, penetrating look, watching Bryce's neck turn a fascinating shade of _red; _followed by his ears, then his face, all the way up into his hairline. Interestingly, his brother seemed to have made a bit of effort with his hair today.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain young red-haired _Guerrin_, by any chance?" Even the tip of Bryce's nose was flushed and he refused to meet Duncan's eyes.

Duncan nodded, _ah-ha._

"You know," he said casually, "I never could figure out why they named her after mother. Why _did _they do it?" _Eirin Guerrin, that must cause her all sorts of comment, poor thing._

Bryce scowled, the colour beginning to leave his face just a little. "Mother and the Arlessa were good friends; they had a special relationship…apparently."

The two brothers looked at each other. They had heard the rumours about the Arlessa – and it had been the Arlessa herself that had taught them both to listen to rumour as sometimes rumour and gossip held snippets of truth. However in the case of their mother and Arlessa Leliana…?

"Nah…" they chorused together.

"So," Bryce continued smoothly. "Let's say the two of us make something of a deal."

Duncan's eyes narrowed. "Oh? I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"No, you'll _love it. _I guarantee it – my word as the king and all that."

"Spit it out, Bryce."

"Well, you know how the Guerrin boys just _adore _their older sister…?"

An eyebrow twitched above Duncan's eye.

"And how they follow her around like lost lambs…?"

The other one rose to join the first.

"I've also been hearing this rather remarkable rumour about _you…_and a certain…shall we say '_individual _of the magical persuasion'…"

Duncan sighed. He knew his twin far too well, to think Bryce wouldn't use any information that came his way to his advantage. The Arlessa had taught them better than that. He also knew how to foil his brother's plans too.

"Her name is Fiona - I'll introduce you one day," Duncan said flatly. "But if you _must _insist, I'll entertain the Guerrin boys while you…do whatever. Just don't get caught by the Arlessa – she'll gut you like a fish and string you up in the town square for people to throw rotten fruit at."

Bryce grinned, looking for all the world like a dark-haired copy of their father.

"So you'll do it? Thank you! Thank you!"

He ran off, or at least shambled very rapidly away, armour clanking noisily the entire time, completely forgetting Duncan had been expected to follow to back him up.

_I'll just let him figure that out for himself when he gets there, _Duncan thought with a smirk. He turned back to the statue, smiling up at her; his Lady of the Tower - Queen Anora – and despite the immovable material she had been cast in, he could still imagine the small smile in answer.

-oo-


End file.
